The Venezuelan

by Bill King

  “Couldn’t you have at least left your deputy to establish a military presence on your side of the border?” asked Lima.

  Sanchez took a deep drag of his cigarette before answering.

  “The regional commander told me—and I’m only paraphrasing his words—to let the Brazilians worry about the caravan. He said his meeting was more important.”

  “And was it?”

  Sanchez paused for a few moments before answering.

  “Well, you know, that’s not really for me to decide,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “He’s a colonel, so his vote obviously counts more than mine when it comes to determining whether or not the meeting that he called was more important than my prior obligations.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a resounding yes to me,” said Lima.

  “Well, between you and me, Roberto,” the Venezuelan said, clearly wanting to get something off his chest, but still carefully measuring his words, “I almost think Colonel Cuellar was hoping the situation would get out of hand and trigger an international incident.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I’ve probably said too much already,” said Sanchez, looking around nervously as if someone else might be listening in. “Every fiber in my body tells me that something important is going on, and if I’m a part of it, I sure don’t know what it is yet. In a country like Venezuela, especially these days, that’s not a healthy position at all to be in.”

  Neither man said a word for what seemed like an eternity.

  “Well, let’s shift our focus back to the border,” Lima said finally, to the immense relief of his Venezuelan counterpart. “Is this a preview of things to come, or will I be able to count on your support for future refugee convoys?”

  “If it is up to me, you can always count on my support. So long as I’m an officer in the Venezuelan army, though, I have to obey the orders from my superiors.”

  “Just know that if there’s ever anything I can do to help, all you have to do is ask,” said the Brazilian. “Trust me, I know exactly what you’re going through. Keep the faith. Things will improve. They always do.”

  Neither man really believed that that feel-good bromide, though.

  ◆◆◆

  It had been raining off and on throughout the day in Ciudad Guayana, so not many people were out on the street. The creaky garage door opened automatically as the muddy panel truck turned into the shallow driveway leading to a nondescript residential building.

  As the rusty metal door noisily lumbered back down, two men got out of the truck and walked toward the doorway leading to the inside of the building. Both were wearing wet clothes from having been caught out in the storm half an hour earlier.

  Antonio Cuellar met them in the small, sparse kitchen just inside the doorway. He was wearing the uniform of a Venezuelan army colonel. The smile on his face disappeared in an instant, replaced by a look of shock.

  Complete and total shock.

  “Ah, Colonel, thank you for meeting us on such short notice,” said Marco, shaking hands with Cuellar, whose mouth was hanging wide open.

  “What is that man doing here?” the colonel asked, all the while staring at the tall man.

  “He’s here because we need him for an important operation in the near future,” said Marco, briefly glancing at Mateo Calderón before returning his attention back to Cuellar. “He doesn’t know any of the specific details yet. Nor does he know the final objective.”

  Calderón was starting to show frustration. Normally, he would be concerned about being in the same room with a Venezuelan colonel, but if the past two months had taught him anything, it was that nothing was truly too farfetched.

  “So is someone finally going to tell me what’s going on?” asked the colonel.

  “Essequibo,” Marco said simply.

  “Essequibo?” said Calderón, speaking for the first time. He was clearly perplexed.

  Venezuela and Guyana have been embroiled in a longstanding territorial dispute over the land on the west side the Essequibo River, land that currently makes up the western two-thirds of the nation of Guyana. The dispute goes back more than three hundred fifty years, and while the legal documents tend to side with the Venezuelans, the adage that Possession is nine-tenths of the law favors Guyana.

  “Yes, we intend to establish a new state between the Orinoco and Essequibo rivers,” said Cuellar, folding his arms across his chest

  “And just who, exactly, is we?” asked Calderón.

  “The three of us and the people we represent,” said Marco. “Important people. People with the resources to pull off something as bold as this.”

  Despite the longevity of the dispute, there never seemed to be any sense of urgency to actually resolve the issue because the area has always been sparsely inhabited. That all changed in 2015, however, when ExxonMobil discovered an enormous volume of offshore oil reserves off the disputed coast of Guyana.

  Since then, estimates of proven reserves have skyrocketed as more discoveries are made. By late 2019, industry experts estimated the Stabroek Block held more than six billion barrels of oil, with production slated to begin in 2020.

  And that doesn’t even include more than thirty trillion cubic feet of gas.

  “Will this new state become a part of Venezuela, or will it be an independent state?” asked Calderón, who was clearly intrigued by the idea.

  Marco spoke first.

  “You know, Mateo, the people I represent really don’t care who runs the government,” he said. “They’re only interested in the oil revenue.”

  “Of course, I have an entirely different perspective,” said the colonel. “Essequibo has always been a rightful part of Venezuela.”

  Marco smiled and reached for a cigarette.

  “Yes, but I’m sure that our partners in Guyana do not share your perspective,” said Marco. “That’s why we agreed to establish an independent state, at least initially.”

  “What will we call this new country?” Calderón asked.

  “Essequibo, of course,” said Marco, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and blowing a smoke ring. “At least that seems to be a name both sides can agree upon.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter 27

  Brasilia, Brazil

  “Ihad an interesting conversation with Ryan the other day,” said Clarice Robideaux, who was sitting in Lucinha Baker’s office in the American Embassy in Brasilia.

  Cortez and Baker looked at her in expectation, as if waiting for her to finish her sentence.

  “You’re both in the CIA, Clarice,” he said finally, a smile on his face. “You’re supposed to have interesting conversations.”

  She rolled her eyes, but otherwise ignored his comment.

  “It was at the embassy picnic at the ambassador’s residence,” she said. “He approached me and asked if I’d heard anything new about either Calderón or Margaret Donovan. He seemed pretty worried.”

  “Yeah, we noticed the two of you talking over on the far side of the lawn,” said Cortez. “It looked like a pretty awkward conversation.”

  “Awkward but necessary…and probably long overdue,” said Clarice.

  “Do you think he was just fishing for information?” asked Baker. “You know, like maybe trying to find out for Donovan what you know.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said Robideaux, shaking her head slowly. “Ryan may be in the Agency, but he has a terrible poker face.”

  “Do you mean he’s usually honest and forthright?”

  “Lord, no, not at all,” said Clarice, almost laughing. “What I mean is that I can always tell if he’s lying or hiding something just by looking into his eyes.”

  “So, what does your gut tell you?” asked Cortez. “Why do you think this conversation was significant?”

  “I can’t help but think that he was searching for an ally…you know, reaching out,” she said. “He seemed genuinely worried, like he knew he was being left out of something he once thought he was i
ncluded in. There was concern in his eyes, maybe even fear.”

  “Okay, so he’s worried and looking for a friend,” said Baker. “Do you think that presents us with an opportunity?”

  “It would sure make our task easier if we didn’t always have to look over our shoulder for him,” said Robideaux.

  “Yes, it would, but it could also be a ruse,” said Baker. “You could be misreading this, and if you are, we’ll have invited a spy—pardon the pun— into our midst.”

  “Yeah, and the stakes are now a hell of a lot higher than they were a just couple of days ago,” said Cortez.

  He then proceeded to detail what he had learned about Margaret Donovan and Dominic D’Angelo from Gonçalves, including her tendency to occasionally disregard the Company’s playbook.

  “So, you think she may be running an unsanctioned operation?” Clarice asked.

  “It’s sure starting to appear that way,” he said. “Jack’s source is pretty convinced about that. Not positive, but ninety percent is how he put it.”

  “And does D’Angelo have ties to Marco?” she asked, hopefully.

  “Not that we’ve been able to run down, at least not yet,” he said. “Still, my gut tells me that they are connected, which would then connect the dots between Calderón all the way to Margaret Donovan…and perhaps even beyond.”

  “What a convoluted mess,” said Robideaux. “It would be nice, for once, if things were black and white rather than always being subtle shades of grey.”

  “Let’s face it, it sure would be helpful to know who else Donovan is working with,” said Cortez. “Ryan Carpenter might be very helpful in that regard.”

  “Yes, if this really is an unsanctioned operation, we need to figure out at what point the conspiracy leaves the Agency?” said Baker. “If that point is Margaret Donovan’s office, then we have a lead as to who she may be working with on the outside.”

  “You mean the guy whose house they met at in Houston?” asked Clarice. “What did you say his name was? Jericho?”

  “Jellico, Zachery Jellico.”

  “What do we know about this man Jellico?” Robideaux asked.

  “Gonçalves has our guys in Houston building a dossier on him,” said Cortez. “We should have something from Jack within the next hour or two. Right now, we only know that he’s a rich guy who lives in Houston…which describes a whole bunch of people.”

  “So what should we do about Carpenter?” asked Baker, her eyes fixing first on Cortez, then on Robideaux. “We need to make a decision. Should we trust him to help us?”

  “Clarice?” he said, deferring the question to the CIA agent. “You know him best. You make the call.”

  Robideaux sat there silently for a few moments, considering her response.

  “I think we should ease into it slowly and carefully, especially at first,” she replied. “I’ll see what he will tell me about Donovan, without me really sharing what we already know.”

  “Sounds like a good plan to me,” said Pete, wishing he felt a little more confident in the decision than he did.

  ◆◆◆

  The view from the terrace of Dominic D’Angelo’s home was positively breathtaking.

  Situated just outside of Scarborough, a city on the southern coast of the island of Tobago, it was about as far off the beaten path as he could get, while still being able to enjoy the cultural amenities supported by the flock of tourists who regularly vacationed on the island. That alone made possible the restaurants and bars and other necessities of life.

  The international airport on Tobago was located less than fifteen minutes away. Although it did not offer the same convenience of flights as did Piarco International Airport near Port of Spain, on the neighboring island of Trinidad, he accepted the downside of routing his travel through New York or Orlando over the nearly four-hour ferry ride from Port of Spain to Tobago.

  The simple, bungalow style house was nestled up in the hills, overlooking Rockly Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. The home’s freshly painted white coat stood in contrast to the lush green of the vegetation that surrounded it. The fronds of the palm trees swayed ever so gently from the mid-afternoon breeze.

  D’Angelo had chosen the secluded sanctuary of his Scarborough home because of the sensitivity of the conversation he was about to have with the muscular black man who was seated in the teal-colored Adirondack chair across from him. The visitor was dressed in light linen slacks and a brightly tropical Tommy Bahama silk shirt he had purchased while on a trip with his family to Disney World in Orlando several months earlier.

  “So, Cedric, shall we get down to business?” said D’Angelo to his guest, Lieutenant Colonel Cedric Bostwick of the Guyana Defense Force.

  “Absolutely,” the man replied.

  There was no mistaking he was a military man, a professional soldier, even in his touristy garb. He had the frame of a professional athlete and the demeanor of a man people respected and followed.

  “I’ve met with your revolutionary friend…Mateo Calderón,” Bostwick continued. “We’ve set him up at the old Morrison Plantation south of Georgetown.”

  “What is your impression of him?”

  “He’s an arrogant man, I’ll tell you that, but he seems to have a good head on his shoulders,” he said, reaching for the glass pitcher of lemonade and refilling his glass. He dropped a couple of ice cubes into the glass, saying, “A habit I picked up in my travels to America.”

  “It’s simply a matter of how much you trust that the water used to make the ice was clean when they froze it,” said the older man, smiling. “By the way, how’s the Venezuelan coming along with his police armory raids?”

  “He seems to have accomplished his objective,” said the colonel. “According to our mutual friend, Antonio Cuellar, the Venezuelan police are going positively crazy, well out of proportion to the quantity of weapons and ammunition they have had stolen from them. The police are so worried about the legendary Fósforo raiding one of their police stations that they’re not paying attention to what our friends in the military are up to.”

  “That will certainly make our task a whole lot easier,” said D’Angelo.

  “How confident are you that we will be able to keep Maduro and his people from sticking their noses into our business while the operation is unfolding?” Bostwick asked. “They could really muck things up for us.”

  “That’s up to our friend, Calderón,” said the American. “If he really does want to lead the Bolivarian Republic back to its rightful perch of greatness—whatever the hell that means—then he needs to successfully carry through on his part of the plan.”

  “And when does he plan to spread his attacks throughout the rest of Venezuela?”

  “Soon, my friend. Soon.”

  ◆◆◆

  Major General Alberto Trujillo Escobar was a powerful man, at least on paper. He commanded the Region Estrategicas de Defensa Integral (REDI) Guayana. REDI Guayana included the southeastern states of Delta Amacuro, Bolivar and Amazonas, which bordered both Brazil and Guyana.

  His helicopter had just landed in an open clearing not far from the highway east of Ciudad Guayana, along the banks of the Orinoco River.

  Waiting for him was Colonel Antonio Cuellar, who was standing about a hundred feet from where the helicopter touched down, his left hand on his head to keep his hat from being blown away by the gusts of wind created by the rotating blades of the helicopter. The grimace on his face reflected his discomfort with the noise from the chopper, a sensitivity he had suffered from most of his life and one which only got worse with age.

  Both men were wearing the dark green fatigue uniform of the Venezuelan army.

  “Mi general, it’s good to see you again,” said Cuellar, saluting smartly before shaking the senior officer’s hand. He turned around and led Trujillo to the limestone cottage situated not more than thirty feet behind them.

  “I trust that everything is going according to schedule for the upcoming training exercise?” the olde
r man asked.

  “Of course, mi general,” he said, allowing the general to step ahead of him. Two armed soldiers posted in front of the doorway snapped to attention and saluted as the two Venezuelan officers entered the cottage. “The units begin arriving in two weeks.”

  The training exercise to which he referred would involve two infantry battalions providing security to the Essequibo River port areas in Ciudad Guayana and Ciudad Bolivar. A third unit involved in the exercise, a paratrooper battalion, would conduct an airborne assault on an as-yet unspecified objective.

  The exercise had been in the works for six months, an unusually short period of time for the Venezuelan army.

  “Have you spoken with Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez?”

  “I have,” said Cuellar. “I had him report to my headquarters last week, while the refugee convoy was approaching the border with Brazil.”

  “Excellent. Does he suspect anything?”

  “No, mi general,” he replied. “I do know, though, that he was pretty upset to be called away right before the confrontation at the border.”

  “Would it be wise to bring him in on the details of the operation?”

  “No, señor, I do not think it would be wise,” said Cuellar. “As you yourself know well, he’s a very straight-laced man who, despite any personal misgivings he may have about the current direction of the country, probably would not be receptive to our plan.”

  “Well, we don’t really need him since he’s way down at the tail end of Highway 10,” said the general, referring to the Venezuelan national highway that runs southbound from Ciudad Guayana to Santa Elena de Uairén on the Brazilian border. From there, the highway continued south as BR-174 to Boa Vista and Manaus.

  “Then I recommend we keep him in the dark.”

  General Trujillo nodded his head somberly in agreement.

  “What about your meeting with Mateo Calderón and the American?”

  “Well, two years ago, if anyone had told me I would be in a room with the infamous Fósforo and not kill him, I would have thought they were crazy,” said the colonel, a wry smile on his face. “Politics certainly makes for strange bedfellows.”